Until Death Do Us Apart
by The Lady Arturia
Summary: Harry's untimely passing brings him face to face with Death, who tells him that he has to return to the living world as a ghost due to his soul being dissatisfied. Being the Master of Death, Harry manages to strike a deal: he would return for a fortnight in order to quench his soul's thirst for helping people. And who does he end up helping but Draco Malfoy?


**A/n: Written for Round 11 of QLFC. Falmouth Falcons Captain prompt: Harry Potter trope: genderbent!Harry. Restriction: First and last words must be the same.**

 **Also written for The Around the Globe Challenge, month of September. Location: London. Path** **D: A walk along the river Thames. Prompt:** _**Write about a place that is there, but not found by many people.**_ **I wrote about the afterlife/heaven/hell/wherever Death and Harry are.**

* * *

 **Until Death do us Apart**

* * *

Death.

That was how it all started.

 **(20,160 minutes to go)**

That was never how it was meant to happen, though. He was never meant to have died so prematurely and in such an anticlimactic way.

Standing before Death, who was little more than an old friend but little less than a lover by this point, Harry thought back to all the times he had brushed past Death without ever looking back. Death had awaited his arrival with open arms, only to be painfully rejected by Harry, whose decisions to enter Death's embrace never seemed to go as planned.

After all, what could he do? The world of the living needed him more than that of the dead.

Ironically enough, he seemed to rely on that need more than he thought he did.

"A ghost?" Harry asked.

"That is correct," Death replied with a dry, wheezy laugh.

"I refuse," Harry said, his jaw set. What sane person would choose to return to roam the living realm for all eternity? None of the ghosts he had ever known were very happy about their transparency or their undying-ness. Although, he had to admit, floating through things seemed like a reasonable enough perk.

"Well, I refuse your refusal," Death said in what Harry assumed was his condescending voice. "As long as your spirit remains dissatisfied with the manner of its untimely disappearance from the realm of the living, you shall continue to remain there in a phantasmal form."

Harry frowned. He wasn't having it. He couldn't disagree that the manner of his death had been rather… laughable, for lack of a better word. After all, a freak accident was not how The Chosen One should have passed on, and returning to the living world and having the joke continue on for all eternity was not something Harry particularly fancied.

"I don't want to be a ghost," Harry said. "I want to stay here, with all the other dead people."

Death inclined his head, and Harry felt like a child being treated with endearment as he threw a silly tantrum.

"I am afraid that isn't a possibility," Death said in a patient voice that made Harry bristle.

"Well, make it one, then!" he snapped. "After all, am I not still the Master of Death?"

Death seemed to recoil at that, and a tingle ran down Harry's spine. Perhaps angering the being that held the key to his afterlife wasn't the best course of action…

"Then so be it!" Death roared. Lightning flashed across the skies and thunder rumbled. "You have a fortnight's time to return to the world of the living and quench your soul's thirst to help those wrought with sorrow! Even one moment longer, and your spirit shall be shackled to the living realm forevermore, with no means of escape!"

Harry shrank back as Death threw his arms in the air, as though summoning down the heavens, and then pointed a long, bony finger at him. "Do not forget: as you are now, you belong to neither the realm of the living nor the dead! Ensnare your spirit with one whose life force can support yours, lest you fade away into non-existence! But, be warned: getting attached to the living shall lead to your downfall!"

So saying, Death brought his arms down, and the ground beneath Harry's feet disappeared. Harry fell, his screams melting away into the eye of the storm.

 **(10,009 minutes to go)**

As it turned out, the world wasn't as shaken up by his death as he had thought.

His initial few days of wandering about in confusion showed him that quite some time had passed since his "accident" and that people had already begun to move on. Harry understood; the war had already left huge, unfillable craters in people's hearts, and the valiant efforts of their beloved late hero would always be remembered fondly.

Still, it wouldn't have hurt them to be a little less excited to move past his death and remain saddened by it for a while longer, would it?

It especially irked him to see that his closest friends and their families were the ones trying their hardest to forget that he was gone.

Perched atop the drawing room fireplace in the Burrow one day, he had watched as Ginny and Hermione flipped through old albums, giggling and reminiscing about the days gone by. Sometimes their smiles would falter and their eyes would turn glassy, and Harry would perk up, prepared to hear some teary-eyed recollections of the girls' good times spent together with him, but they would recover rather quickly and return to their forced chirpiness.

"Why bother when you're so obviously distressed?" he wanted to ask them. "Just be sad so I can comfort you and heal your broken hearts—and then return back to the world of the dead so I don't have to wander around here as a ghost for all eternity."

But, much to his chagrin, his friends were all far stronger than he wanted to give them credit for. It both frustrated and moved him to see that they were all there for each other; to hold one another in times of happiness and need. There was really no space for Harry to nestle himself with one of their souls so that he could do what he had come for.

He needed to find a host, and fast; his spirit wouldn't last otherwise, and he would get "ejected out of the living world," as Death had so kindly informed him.

But what could he do? The people he wanted to help didn't seem to need his help; they were doing just fine without him.

Disheartened, Harry had then taken to floating around aimlessly in hopes that he would find an unsuspecting soul who needed mollifying. But, as it turned out, the wizarding world had come together in arms after the war. People now supported one another and were there for the other's needs. It was all very heart-warming but was not what Harry needed just then.

Where was a pathetic, brooding soul when he needed one?

Finally, as though in answer to his prayers, he chanced upon a certain pointy-faced blond sitting with a pug-faced brunette at the very back of a quiet café in London. He would have floated right past them if it weren't for some commotion that had risen outside. Harry, out of bored curiosity, had turned to look and had spotted the pair inside the small shop.

Swooping in through the glass window—flying through objects had become the only thing Harry had come to enjoy so far—he proceeded to hover over their table.

"You need to stop with this constant moping about, Draco," Pansy Parkinson was saying. "There's no way you could have anticipated it."

Draco Malfoy, in all his furrow-browed, brooding glory, sat stirring his tea and staring unseeingly at the tabletop without answering. After an inordinately long time, Malfoy said, "But I had the opportunity to do it before, and now it's too late. He's—gone."

Harry wondered whom the blond was referring to. Was he talking about Crabbe?

Meanwhile, Pansy said, "Well, if you already know there's no point crying over spilt milk, why are you still doing it?"

Malfoy glanced to the side and muttered, "Easy for you to say."

"Of course it is," Pansy agreed with a huff. " _I_ wasn't the one who was madly in love with The Boy Who Lived."

Malfoy glared at her, and Harry floated lower to settle in-between the two. Their conversation was entertaining, to say the least, and he was enjoying the fact that somebody he knew was finally discussing him instead of avoiding everything to do with him like the plague.

"I wasn't in _love—"_

"Oh, _please_ , Draco. Anybody else would buy that, but not me. You're mourning Harry Potter's death more than that Weaslette girlfriend of his."

Harry turned to eye the blond at that. It did seem so, considering Malfoy's usually impeccable appearance was sloppy and dishevelled. He looked barely put-together, and that gave Harry a twisted sense of joy. At least _someone_ was still mourning him, even if that person was Malfoy.

As he watched the man splutter, Harry came to a decision: Draco Malfoy would be the one he would help, and Pansy Parkinson would be the perfect host.

 **(749 minutes to go)**

After a week in Pansy's body, Harry noticed that he had become very comfortable in it, as though it had always been his. The fact that Pansy was surprisingly open-minded towards a lot of things made adaptability all that simpler.

At first, Malfoy—or Draco, as he had grown accustomed to calling him—had seemed rather suspicious of Pansy's sudden change in behaviour and mannerisms. Now, he had either gotten used to them or had just chosen to ignore them in favour of other things. Harry wasn't entirely sure how to feel about Draco's taking everything in stride so simply. After all, it had reached the point where he/she was no longer sure if she/he was more Pansy or Harry, or both.

Throughout the week that Harry had spent with Draco, he/she could see that Pansy formed the foundation of the blond's emotional support. There were times when Draco was cool and unconcerned, and there were others when he was an emotional wreck. And Pansy—or Harry, rather—was always there beside him.

The amount of time the two spent with each other had increased drastically over the past week, and the longer Harry spent speaking with Draco, the more she/he was coming to understand what an interesting person the blond was. Draco had many talents and hobbies, a lot of which Harry didn't understand but could appreciate, and the blond excelled in everything he did.

Draco was quite a perfectionist and needed everything to be well organised and tidy. He enjoyed reading and writing non-fiction and had a rather pleasant singing voice. He was extremely proficient at ballroom dancing and was the perfect gentlemen.

Harry had encouraged Draco to pursue his passions in an attempt to help the blond get out of his woe-begotten state, and, of course, in order to help Harry return to the world of the dead, where she/he rightfully belonged.

There were many a time when Harry had found him/herself getting lost in Draco's shimmering, silver eyes, and every time he would blame it on Pansy. The closer it got to the end of Harry's short stay in the living world, the more she/he felt like he/she didn't want to leave, and that upset her/him greatly.

The Draco Malfoy she/he knew now was nothing like the condescending git he was back in Hogwarts, and Harry wondered if it was only towards him/her that Draco had been that way. That, again, caused her/his chest to ache, and she clutched it in confusion.

What was happening to her?

 **(93 minutes to go)**

One day, while Harry sat brooding over her sinful desires, Draco came over with two cups of chamomile tea. Handing one over to Harry, he said, "There's something I've been meaning to ask you that I—I haven't been quite sure of."

Heart beginning to race, Harry turned to Draco, tucking a strand of her perfectly coiffed hair behind her ear. "Yes?"

"You see…" Draco trailed off, clearing his throat nervously, and then looked up to meet Harry's eyes. "Spending these past seven days with you has calmed me down and brought me back to my senses."

Harry's heart thundered in her chest. Had she done it? Had she managed to do what he had returned to Draco's world for?

"And I—there's just something about you of late that I haven't been able to put my finger on," the blond continued. "It's almost as though… you're a completely different person, yet you're not. Does that… make sense?"

"I… suppose?" Harry said, her voice slightly high-pitched. Had Draco noticed that Harry wasn't Harry, but—no, that Harry wasn't Pansy, but was—no, no, that Harry was Harry but was also Pansy, who was Harry, who was—

"Pansy?"

Harry inhaled deeply, her eyelashes fluttering. That's right. She—no, _he_ was Pansy, not Harry. She had to remember that. She was Harry, not Pansy. The longer she remained in Pansy's body, the harder it was becoming to remember who he was.

"That's what I'm here for," she said with a small smile. "To help you get through your sorrow."

Draco was staring at her as though he had seen her for the first time and murmured, "Were your eyes always that shade of green?"

Harry had been leaning in towards the blond unconsciously, but what Draco said made her jerk backwards, eyes growing wide in shock. "I—excuse me?"

"No, I was just curious. I always thought your eyes were brown."

 _My eyes_ are _brown,_ a voice in Harry's head said—a voice that didn't belong to him. It was _her._

Harry smiled, moving closer to Draco and fluttering her eyelids. He wasn't about to let _her_ come back and ruin everything she had worked so hard for. Just a few more days; all she needed was a few more days, and he would be free.

 _But will you?_

Pushing the obnoxious voice out of her mind, Harry leant in once again, intent on proving to Pansy that he was a better her than she would ever be. But, just as Draco's eyes fluttered closed, Harry felt a tug in her chest and a gut-wrenching pain overcame her.

 _This body belongs to me! And so does Draco!_

 _No!_

Harry struggled to regain control over the body that was now hers, but Pansy was adamant. She had been rather well-behaved until just then, and Harry gasped as another wave of pain surged through her. Draco's eyes snapped open and he caught Harry as she fell back, helping her recline against the back of the sofa as she tried to bring her breathing under control.

"Are you alright?" Draco asked, and Harry couldn't help but feel smug about the fact that the blond's concern was directed towards her and not Pansy.

 _Wait,_ Harry thought. _That's wrong._

Had she done the one thing that Death had warned her of? Had she grown attached to Draco?

 **(10 minutes to go)**

Harry paced up and down as she waited for Draco. He had been avoiding her ever since their almost-kiss, and she had a feeling she knew why. There was a point she had blacked out for a few minutes while fighting Pansy's soul, and she was worried the meddlesome witch had told Draco something that she shouldn't have and foiled all of Harry's plans.

She was running out of time, and she needed to make sure she had done what she had come to do. After all the torture Pansy's soul had put her through by constantly fighting her and trying to kick her out, the last thing she needed was for all of it to fall apart and for her to end up as a bloody ghost.

 **(8 minutes to go)**

"Draco!" Harry snapped, whirling around as she heard the door open.

Draco started but smiled as he approached her, making Harry wonder if she was just overthinking things. Taking a moment to give Draco a once-over, she was proud to note that the blond looked much better than he had two weeks ago.

"I haven't seen you in a while," she said as he came to stand before her. "How are you?"

His smile widened. "Happy, thanks to you."

 **(6 minutes to go)**

Harry felt her heart flutter and a lump formed in her throat. She nodded. "I'm glad to hear it."

Draco took her hands in his, and Harry felt a strain in her chest as Pansy fought against her. "I'm sorry if it seemed like I was avoiding you; there was something I had to confirm no matter what."

"What is it?"

"You're not Pansy, are you?"

Harry's breath caught in her throat and her vision blurred. Pansy's soul was fighting back with all her might, and Harry's spirit was slowly giving in. Was it already time?

 **(4 minutes to go)**

"I—I don't know what you mean," Harry said, noticing a dark aura forming behind Draco. Was _he_ already here?

"I've been watching you for a while now," Draco said, oblivious to Harry's panic. "And although I pretended not to notice, I've been keeping track of everything un-Pansy-like that you did."

"You—what?" Harry asked, her eyes following the aura as it moved around Draco to come behind her. Had Draco just said what she thought he had?

 **(2 minutes to go)**

"I've been reading up on spirits latching onto souls in order to gain closure," Draco continued. "It's rather uncommon, but not impossible."

"That isn't important," Harry snapped as she felt a jolt run down her spine. "Listen, Draco. Wasn't there something you've always wanted to say to Harry Potter that you regret not being able to tell him when he was alive?"

Draco nodded, his expression growing sombre. "That's why I'm going to say it now."

Harry nodded.

"I've always—"

 **(30 seconds to go)**

"Time's up," an eerie voice echoed through his mind, and Harry's spirit was wrenched out of Pansy's body. He shuddered, feeling a heavy sense of loss overcome him as he looked down at the pair below. Draco was still speaking, but Harry could only hear the wheezing voice in his ear as it said, "Well done. You seem to have succeeded after all. Now, shall we?"

Turning around, he eyed the hooded being and yearned to ask for more time, but he knew better. He had already felt the effects of being in a place where he didn't belong—of nearly losing himself to emotions that weren't his.

Or were they?

Swallowing thickly, he nodded and stepped forwards.

 **(0 seconds to go)**

That was how it all ended.

Death.

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 **A/n: Thank you for reading! Here's another Drarry to add to the collection! I'm rather proud of myself for sticking to my oath of posting at least 1 Drarry every month or month and a half :3**

 **Leave a review and let me know what you thought!**

 **Lots of love,**

 **Arty xx**


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